Sherlock and the Three Visitors
by roane
Summary: "Sherlock Holmes hated Christmas to begin with." (Apologies to Charles Dickens.)
1. Chapter 1: The First Visitor

Sherlock Holmes hated Christmas, to begin with. If you asked him, he'd say he always had. It was a pointless holiday, and required far too much feigning of excitement and surprise over dull things like socks and electric razors. He said so often as the month of December came, to anyone who so much as said the word 'Christmas' within his earshot. So John really had no one to blame but himself for being hurt that Sherlock didn't get him a Christmas present and refused to have anything to do with John's plans for any sort of Christmas dinner.

"Fantastic," John had snarked at him. "I'm just waiting for you to say 'Bah, humbug.'"

"Well strictly speaking," Sherlock had said, "Christmas is a humbug, if by humbug you mean something trivial and deceptive."

"I give up!" John had literally thrown up his hands before grabbing his coat. "I'm off out. I'll spend the evening with Harry-"

"She's drinking again-"

"Even drunk, she's still better bloody company than Sherlock 'Ebenezer Scrooge' Holmes!" John had stormed out, and Sherlock had stood at the window and watched him walk away.

Things were not good between them, hadn't been for months. There was too much Sherlock couldn't tell John, too much he didn't dare share with him, no matter how close they were. Moriarty wasn't finished with them yet. Sherlock knew something worse than the bombings was on its way, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't figure out what it might be.

Hours after John left, Sherlock was tossing and turning in his bed, frustrated both that sleeping next to John these past months had accustomed him to both sleeping at regular hours and a warm body beside him, and without the latter, the former was evading him.

He heard the church bells chime the hour once. How was it one AM already? There was a creak at his bedroom door and he sat up with a start.

An apparition stood at the foot of his bed, a woman dressed all in white, glowing from the hem of her silk gown all the way up to the roots of her warm brown hair, carefully curled and coiffed, and dressed with a silver tinsel bow.

"Molly, really. This is ludicr-"

"I am not Molly Hooper, although I bear her face." The figure moved forward, rising up slightly. Craning his neck, Sherlock could see that her feet, pale and shining bare, did not touch the ground. "You must come with me, for I am here to show you the past."

Sherlock had swallowed any sense of incredulity at the form's appearance, and just rolled his eyes. "This is the most idiotic dream I have ever had."

Not-Molly's eyes flared fire-bright and seized his arm, pinching it repeatedly with long, bright-red painted fingernails.

"Ouch! Ouch, all right, fine, yes!" Sherlock pulled his abused arm away, feeling the imprint of fingers still around his wrist. He could see where her fingernails had left marks on his arm.

"Take my arm and follow me," Not-Molly said.

Sherlock shrugged, and made a note to do some extensive research on lucid dreaming once he woke up. He took her arm, and she pulled him through the closed window and out of the flat into the night. Sherlock blinked repeatedly against the sting of the wind as they flew over the glowing city below and far out into the countryside. After too short a time, they approached a large, foreboding stone building that Sherlock remembered all too well. His stomach twisted as they flew inside.

The main hall was decorated in bright greenery and red ribbons, but it was empty save for one small boy, pale and frail, sitting curled near the fireplace with a book as big as he was. He remembered that Christmas very well. Mummy and Father had been away to America for Father's job, and Mycroft had elected to visit with a school friend over the term holidays. Sherlock, who had no school friends, thought it would be brilliant to stay behind at the school. He had envisioned running up and down the halls by himself, waving his imaginary sword, unfettered by cries of "freak", unafraid that someone might trip him.

After the first day, he'd been miserable. He spent the bulk of the holidays right there near the fireplace, memorizing the chemical equations of various endothermic reactions. The imaginary sword had never made an appearance again.

Sherlock swallowed, and wanted to reach out to the boy on the ottoman, to let him know that his life was going to be brilliant.

"Why are you showing me this?" he asked her.

"To remind you," she said simply. He thought there might have been something like pity in her eyes. Before he could say anything further, she drew him away, and up through the air they went again.

Back to London, he could tell by the shape of the road beneath them. Not present-day London, he amended, as soon as they flew down to street level. Judging by the hairstyles and the automobile models, he judged it to be in the late 1990s. A bus went by, encouraging onlookers to "ring in 1998 in style" at some club he vaguely remembered frequenting.

Then with a drop in his gut, he thought he knew which Christmas this was.

Sure enough, the spirit-for lack of a more scientific term-flew them to the grimy flat he'd lived in so long ago. The one-room flat was tiny and filthy. Had it always smelled so horrible? The smell of stale smoke and unwashed human bodies combined with old takeaway. And there before him was his 19-year-old self, sprawled naked on a grungy mattress, his eyes rolled back in his head in chemical bliss.

On the floor next to the mattress were confirmation of what was flowing through his veins, a used syringe, a spoon, a lighter.

Even though he knew to expect it, the pounding on the front door made him jump. Nineteen-year-old Sherlock didn't even twitch. The door flew open and in stepped Mycroft, younger and plumper than he was these days, but neatly dressed in carefully-pressed jeans and a button-down shirt.

"Oh Christ," Mycroft said, on taking in the mess of the flat and of Sherlock.

"H'lo, Mycroft," younger Sherlock smiled muzzily and tried to sit up on the bed, seemingly unaware of his nudity.

"When Sergeant Lestrade phoned me, I didn't want to believe him, but it's worse than he said," Mycroft said.

"S'fine," Sherlock said. "I'm just unwinding... after exams."

"Oh, yes, your exams," Mycroft said coldly. "You won't be returning to school next term, thanks to your performance there."

Younger Sherlock was looking about blearily, and the twist in his older counterpart's gut almost doubled him. Young Sherlock realised his state of undress and hauled the nearest dirty sheet over him, upsetting a full ashtray. "It'll be fine," he said, making an effort to speak clearly. "We'll just have a talk with the-"

"No," Mycroft said. "We won't. You are coming home with me Sherlock, right now."

"You can't make me, you great bloody cow." Then he was trying to climb to his feet, unsuccessfully. Mycroft caught his arm and pulled him upright. Sherlock shoved at him, but Mycroft held fast.

"I can," said Mycroft. "You're coming home with me. Today, right now."

Older Sherlock pulled at the spirit's arm. "Please. I remember what happened after this. I don't want to see more."

Not-Molly nodded, and pulled him away while behind them, Mycroft began wrestling his younger brother into some clothing.

-

And once more they were flying over London. Sherlock imagined he could almost see the years flying by under them with the buildings, until they were hovering over 221B. He could hear himself playing the violin to the somewhat tipsy laughter of Mrs Hudson. "I do wish you'd worn the antlers though..."

Last Christmas then. Sherlock and the spirit hovered in an upper corner of the room, and Sherlock watched what was going on with a new awareness. The first time John would kiss him was still six months away, but Sherlock could see now the way that John's eyes followed him. Sherlock had been a fool not to see it sooner. There was a warmth in the room that he'd missed the first time, so caught up in being aloof and above it all.

His mobile phone rang with its obscene text sound, and Sherlock saw himself go to the mantelpiece and retrieve the present there. The spirit didn't follow him into his bedroom; they remained in the sitting room, watching the party cheer die away. The worry on John's face was naked and unabashed. No wonder Jeanette had left him that night.

"Time to go," the spirit said, and he nodded. She pulled him through the sitting room window, and-

Sherlock was back in his bed. The church bells outside were chiming the hour again. They chimed just once.


	2. Chapter 2: The Second Visitor

The sound of a familiar laugh made him open his eyes, although he could have sworn he never closed them. Another glowing figure, this one dressed in opulent robes of holly green and trimmed with gold. Mrs Hudson's cheeks were flushed bright and her eyes snapped merrily. "Come on now, up you get!"

"What?"

"You've places to go, you know. And we haven't got all night." She laughed, reaching down to haul him up. "No time like the present!"

And out the window they flew once more. The sensation of flying threatened to overwhelm Sherlock, the dip and swoop in his belly. It was stronger than before, but still no sensation of cold, despite the occasional pelting of sleet as they flew. The streets of London were flooded with revelers, all bundled up in warm coats and holiday cheer. This second spirit flew closer to the street, and he could hear snippets of conversation.

"Don't forget, we need to stop by and-"

"Well then I told Jacob that if he wanted to-"

"-head to your sister's after?"

The sheer _humanness_ of it all was less irritating than usual. He'd never stopped to consider the oddity of an entire culture dropping everything and behaving the same way at the same time. He had no time to consider it further, for they were soaring along the familiar streets towards a familiar destination.

New Scotland Yard was ablaze with light, and a stomach tingling swoop brought them into one of the conference rooms in Lestrade's department. A few of the officers were in the midst of finishing a holiday party, to judge by the nearly empty platters of cold cuts and cheese, and the biscuit crumbs on several plates.

Lestrade raised a half-full glass of wine. "It's been a good year, lads-and Donovan," he said, grinning at her. She snorted, but raised her glass in return. "Our close rate is higher than it's been in years, so cheers for that." They all raised their glasses. "I think we have to admit, we owe at least a bit of that to Sherlock..."

There was a grumbling, and everyone put their glasses down except Lestrade.

"I'm not drinking to sodding Sherlock Holmes," said Dimmock.

"Me either," said Donovan. "Not after the fit he threw at the last crime scene."

"Admit it," Anderson said to Lestrade, "the only reason you didn't punch him was because John was there."

"John is the reason most people don't punch him these days," Donovan said, rolling her eyes.

"All right, all right," Lestrade said, his glass never wavering. "He's an insufferable git, but thanks to him, we _did_ close some cases we might not have otherwise, so cheers, eh?" He waggled his glass imperiously. When he didn't relent, the others around the table raised their glasses and offered what was surely one of the most dispirited holiday toasts offered in London that night.

"He's a good man," said the spirit. "He's given you more chances than you deserve."

"Oi," said Sherlock. "Did you not just hear him? They owe me!"

"Yes," she said, her voice terrible and gentle, "and I think you know well what you owe him."

Sherlock, remembering his first visitation, sighed. "Yes."

"Come along. We've one more stop before my time is past." She took his arm, and away they went.

Sherlock knew every part of London, but he couldn't think at first why the spirit had brought him here, a dull, middle-class neighborhood just outside of the city proper. In through the window they flew, landing in a very beige, very proper sitting room full of people.

Despite the dull setting, the room's occupants were loud and boisterous, with the loudest and most boisterous being the short, roundly-built redhead who was in the middle of an anecdote, "...and so he _drags_ my brother out to Dartmoor, nearly gets him killed..."

"Harry, enough." John's tired voice was enough to cut the story off completely.

"And you see?" Harry said, gesturing with a glass that Sherlock knew did not contain just tonic water. "He's still defending him. You can't tell me he's not your boyfriend, John." The bystanders, mostly women, giggled.

Sherlock saw the battle fought on John's face. They'd never really talked about what they were. It seemed so natural that it never occurred to Sherlock to define it. Which, come to think of it, was an oddity itself, because he was compelled to classify everything.

"Fine, if you want to call it that," John said.

"I knew it," Harry crowed, amidst the cheers of her friends. "Oh, mum and dad are going to absolutely _shit_ to hear there's two of us..."

John scowled and started to argue with her, but Sherlock could see that some of the tension had relaxed around his eyes, as if putting a name to their relationship had eased something.

One of the women piped up, "If he's your boyfriend, why isn't he here?"

_I am here_, Sherlock wanted to say, _I am here, you annoying idiot, and I've seen the way you're eyeing him up._ He opened his mouth to say it aloud, when the spirit stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "They won't hear you."

"Yes, but she's clearly trying to cause trouble to see if she can get his attention," Sherlock protested.

"Watch John."

John looked the woman over and smiled, and Sherlock felt an unfamiliar burning in the pit of his stomach, a burning that made him want to grab John by the arm and drag him far, far away from this half-drunk woman with designs on him.

"Wellll," John drawled, looking somehow less tired than before, "that's because I'd rather keep him at home waiting for me in our bed. He likes doing what I tell him."

"That's not true," Sherlock protested, and the spirit elbowed him.

"Can't hear you, dear."

The woman was looking at John with equal parts intrigue and disappointment, and Sherlock could tell John was trying not to laugh. Even Harry was looking at him with wide eyes. John lifted his chin and sat down his drink. "Now, if you'll excuse me, ladies, I should go home and see that he's been behaving himself."

"Come on," Sherlock said, grabbing the spirit by the arm. "Come on, get me home. I want to be there before he comes in."

"You will be," she said. "But you will have one more visitor first."

Sherlock sat up with a start in his bed, and the church clock was still striking one AM.


	3. Chapter 3: The Third Visitor

The figure who stood at the foot of his bed this time was not immediately familiar. It was robed and cowled in a black so intense it seemed that no light could escape from it. No part of its face was visible.

Sherlock swung his legs over the side of his bed. "Well, I assume if logic holds, you'll be here to show me the future."

The spirit made no answer, but stood looming. Even when he stood up, Sherlock found that the figure still stood an inch or two taller. "All right," he said, "we'll do this your way. Although, if I can make a request, I'd love to see the look on Jim Moriarty's face when he realises I've beaten him."

Wordless, the spirit tilted its head towards Sherlock, then beckoned towards him with a long, pale hand. The pinky ring was familiar. "Of course," said Sherlock. "I might have known. Go on then, I'm with you."

There was no familiar taking by the arm or the by the hand, instead Sherlock followed the dark figure out into the night. It was much colder than before, and now Sherlock felt it, if only distantly. They flew through the night, and Sherlock grew unnerved by the spirit's silence. He saw where their likely path was taking them. "The Yard again, eh? Another Christmas party? I hope this one is better than the last one."

The air at the Yard was anything but festive. They wound up in Lestrade's office, where he sat at his desk with his head held in his hands. The last time Sherlock had been here, the walls bore a few photos and commendations, now there was nothing but nail-holes to show where they'd been. There was no mess of files on Lestrade's desk, but just a cardboard box. As Sherlock watched, Lestrade opened up one of the desk drawers and began pulling out the contents, sorting them desultorily and putting things in the box.

"How far in the future have you taken me?" Sherlock asked. "He can't be retiring yet."

The spirit made no answer, but Lestrade's door opened and Donovan poked her head in. "Sir? Some of us were going down to the pub. Come with us."

"You don't have to call me 'sir' anymore, you know."

"Try and stop me," Sally said, with an attempt at a smile. "We all know it's only temporary. You'll be back in no time."

"I knew I was taking a risk and it backfired."

Sherlock watched the back and forth with an increasingly suspicious mind.

"Go on," Lestrade said, "I'll be there in a bit. I just need to finish packing this up." After Sally left, he looked around the office and muttered, "Merry fucking Christmas."

"What's happened?" Sherlock demanded, grabbing at the spirit's sleeve. "Lestrade is the only thing approaching a competent detective that the Yard has. What's happened?"

There was no answer, but the spirit pointed outside, and beckoned Sherlock onward once more.

-

The night grew colder, cold enough that Sherlock was acutely aware he was in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. They flew to what Sherlock at first took for a snow-covered empty field, until the tombstones stood out from the snow. The pit of stomach plummeted. He had only one thought, just one. Two words:

_Not John._

The spirit he followed left no trail, although now Sherlock found himself stumbling to keep up over snow and gnarled tree roots. He was dimly aware that his feet were bare, but felt nothing beyond unpleasant cold wetness, nothing cold enough to numb or damage, just enough to cause misery. The dark figure reached a particular tombstone, and then stopped. Snow and ice had blown across the surface, concealing the name. The spirit pointed one long finger at it.

"Wait," Sherlock said. "I understand. You're showing me the future. I'm going to gloss over how that's happening or if this is even real, but I have to know one thing before I look at that tombstone: are you showing me something that's beyond changing? Or is the future something that's in flux?"

There was no answer, only the same inexorable pointing.

With his heart in his throat, Sherlock walked to the black stone. He hesitated, then reached down to wipe away the ice.

_Oh thank god._

**_SHERLOCK_**

**_HOLMES_**

read the tombstone, and nothing more.

Sherlock sat back on his heels and started to laugh. "Really? Is that the worst you can do? Honestly, even in spirit form you're melodramatic."

The spirit tilted its head toward him, and Sherlock got the impression that it was staring at him. Likely disapprovingly.

"I know that I'm going to die. It's the logical result of the work I do. If that was a threat for me to straighten up, it was a poor one." Sherlock stood up and dusted the last of the snow off his hands. "Are we quite finished here?"

-

Sherlock thought after that they might go back to 221B, where he would be able to go back to his bed. Instead, they were once more in the streets of London, a grimy, unfashionable part of town. Up, up, up they went, and in through the window of a sullen-looking bedsit. Although it was neat enough, nothing about it looked clean, as if years of unhappy tenants had stained the walls with dullness and despair.

"Why am I here?" Sherlock asked, although he knew there would be no answer.

A few moments passed, then Sherlock heard an awkward, thumping step coming up the stair. Heavy footfalls interspersed with light ones. The walker had a limp and a-yes, that was it-a cane.

Sherlock froze in a moment of realisation. "I don't want to see," he said, his voice very quiet. "Please. Mycroft or whoever you are."

The door creaked open and in limped John, wrestling with his cane and the door. He was grey-faced, looking at least ten years older than when Sherlock had seen him last. Under his arm was a set of folded newspapers, and Sherlock felt a twinge in his chest; whatever had happened, John was still following the news, so maybe it wasn't so bad.

He watched as John went through the halting motions of making a cup of tea, before settling himself at the battered desk on one side of the room. When he opened the papers, he started at the back rather than the front. John rummaged in the desk drawer and came up with a pair of scissors. He snipped a small piece of the paper out, then rummaged again, bringing up a large scrapbook. Carefully, he taped the square of newsprint on one of the last pages.

Sherlock crept over-although by now he knew there was no need for stealth-and read over John's shoulder. The story was a small back-page piece, the headline simply, "10th 'Fake Detective' Conviction Overturned". There were other similar stories on the page. Sherlock staggered back a few steps, trying to put together the pieces of what he'd read.

John sat looking at the page for several minutes. Then he flipped to the front of the book, and slowly moved through it, page by page. Sherlock had no idea what might have happened, but defeat was pouring from John like sweat from his pores. John made a choked noise. "Sherlock."

Sherlock jumped, thinking John was talking to him, that somehow John knew he was there.

"You stupid, selfish, buggering cunt," John said, lowering his head to his hands. "Why didn't you trust me?" He took a deep, shuddering breath, and lifted his head. He propped open the scrapbook against the wall in front of him, open to the first page. The cover of _The Sun_ blared out "SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS".

John burrowed into the drawer again, and this time John came out with something familiar and Sherlock felt a shout clawing at his throat. John laid the Browning down on the desk, the muzzle pointing towards the wall. He sat with his hands in his lap for a long, quiet time.

Sherlock couldn't help it, he lunged forward and tried to grab John by the shoulders, and passed through him entirely. He spun and grabbed the spirit by the robes and shook it. "Tell me I can change this. This... this can't happen. Tell me I can change it."

Something, something must have gone horribly wrong in pursuit of Moriarty. Had... had Moriarty won? _Why didn't you trust me?_ What had he not trusted John with? Was there anything that he wouldn't trust John to do, any secret he wouldn't trust him to keep? He could see John's shoulders tensing, trying to strengthen his resolve.

Sherlock couldn't watch this. He turned away, knowing he was a coward, but he couldn't. "Spirit, take me out of here. Please. Don't make me. I think I understand. Please."

Behind him he heard the sound of a slide being pulled back.

-

The clock was striking, but it didn't stop at one. The sky outside was just beginning to lighten, just enough for Sherlock to see that he wasn't alone. But instead of a spirit visitation, next to him in the bed, snoring and sleeping the sleep of the recently pissed, was John.

Relief made Sherlock reel back against the pillows, but only for a heartbeat, before he practically climbed onto John, wrapping his arms and legs around him.

"Sherlock, off me," John muttered, shoving at him. "Too early."

"John. John, please, wake up. I have to talk to you." Sherlock sprang up from the bed, pacing. Christmas. Oh no, it was Christmas. He had no presents. Was anything open? No, no, he didn't want to leave John for that long.

He must have been muttering to himself, because John grumbled, "Yes, happy Christmas, go back to sleep!"

Sherlock knew what he needed to do. He rushed into the kitchen and filled the kettle and found a mug that wasn't too terribly dirty. When the kettle clicked off, he filled the mug and buttered some bread-the toaster had fallen prey to an ill-fated experiment. Milk in the tea, bread on a plate, Sherlock went back into the bedroom.

"John, look! I brought you breakfast!"

John groaned and rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"It's Christmas, John. I made you breakfast in bed!" Sherlock sat the plate and the mug on the bedside table, and sat down on the bed, giving John a little shake. "Come on, before it gets cold."

John hauled himself back to sit against the headboard, and took the mug of tea. "You're not conducting an experiment on me, are you?"

"Not at all."

"Oh god. What did you blow up?" He reached for the plate and took a bite of the bread. "Sherlock, this isn't toast."

"The toaster is broken. No worries, I know just how to fix it, and if not, we can replace it tomorrow, first thing." Sherlock leaned over and kissed John on the cheek, nearly upsetting his tea.

"Sherlock... you didn't... take anything, did you? You're quite manic."

Enough was enough. Sherlock took away the mug and the plate and took John's hands. "John. I know I haven't always told you everything that's going on."

John shook his head. "Shh, we've been over this before, I get it."

"No, you don't. I'm going to start. Today. Right after you finish your tea."

"All right, all right." John smiled and kissed the back of one of Sherlock's hands. "You're bloody mad, you know that. Fine. Tell me everything."

"I will." Sherlock's rapidly beating heart was gradually slowing down to something approaching normal, and the worst of the panic was fading. "Now finish your breakfast."

"Yes, I wouldn't want my 'toast' to get cold," John said, laughing. He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock. "Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas, John."


End file.
